


Writ Plain

by katajainen



Series: Season of Kink 2019: LOTR edition [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A big chunk of smut in a very thin plot sandwich, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Oaths & Vows, Tattoos, Worldbuilding lite, bordering on body worship, very little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 15:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: It is no frivolous thing, to forever mark your skin with another's name.Especially so for an elf.





	Writ Plain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeHeerKonijn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/gifts).

> Inspired by Deheerkonijin’s [most lovely art.](https://twitter.com/deheerkonijn/status/1145130577735147520)
> 
> Fills the Free Kink (Marking) square of my [Season of Kink bingo card.](https://katajainen.dreamwidth.org/23412.html)

‘I’ve decided,’ said Legolas on the morning he was set to leave back for Ithilien. ‘I want it done.’

Gimli did not need to ask what he meant, for as he spoke, Legolas was tracing the inked lines of Gimli’s own promise-mark with light, ticklish fingertips. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘When you next come visiting, then– or should I have someone to come with me?’

Legolas shook his head, swept a lock of hair behind his ear, and Gimli should have known. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘if you can arrange it.’

Gimli sat up, scratched at his beard, looked at his impetuous husband, and nodded. ‘If you have a design made, I can see it done.’ But he thought it passing strange.

A full year had passed since they had first been married, and during that time, Legolas had asked questions upon questions about calligraphy and tradition, some of them so intricate that Gimli had ceded them to any master scribe or illuminator who would suffer a day of an endlessly curious elf. But for all his talk on the matter, Legolas had not once mentioned having a design drawn for him, and Gimli had, deep in his secret heart, begun to think he might have changed his mind about having a mark done. It was his right, if he did not feel the need.

But Legolas shook his head again, his face set firm. ‘No design. Just your name, writ plain.’

‘It is–’

_ ‘It is not done, _ you mean to say,’ Legolas cut him short. ‘But tell me true: if I were the sort to be cowed by _ it is not done, _ would I be here now?’ 

He made a wide gesture encompassing the room and everything in it: the high vaulted ceiling pierced by fine-cut lattices of stone, sifting and sieving the sunlight in; the chest at the foot of the bed, holding all the gems and finery Legolas would wear on formal occasions and gleefully shed off immediately afterwards. The two of them, naked among the tangled sheets and blankets. Gimli said nothing.

‘I believe _ neither _ of us would be so swayed,’ Legolas went on, with a purposeful gaze at the swirl of ink above Gimli’s own heart, now half-hidden under his beard.

Yet Gimli knew his promise-mark was traditional in most ways: though it said simply ‘Legolas’, the name was written in a style that was legible only to those few who could follow the design of interwoven letters – that the alphabet used was Fëanorian rather than Ereborian was but a quaint detail. He knew Legolas knew all this, so he did not argue, but instead asked where he would wear his mark, writ plain. Gimli’s own choice was a common one, but Legolas had the whole of his unmarked skin to choose from.

His husband smiled in reply. ‘You will like it, I think,’ he said with mischief in his eyes. He turned to sit with his back to Gimli, parted his free-flowing hair and pressed two fingers on a spot at the very top of his neck. ‘Here.’

It would be cleverly done; the way Legolas wore his hair, the mark would be hidden to all save the one who had leave to set a comb to his hair. And Gimli’s husband knew too well the paths of his thought: it pleased him. It pleased him a great deal. His name, writ plain, and only for his eyes to see.

‘A bold choice,’ he said aloud, and retraced the path of Legolas’s fingers with his own.

Legolas turned to look over his shoulder at him and spoke softly. ‘No more than any other I’ve made,’ he said, leaving Gimli no choice but to kiss him, first on the yet-unmarked skin of his neck, then firmly on the mouth.

* * * 

The Lord of Aglarond could accomplish many things in a single day, if need be, and now need had been for him to first persuade a master skingraver to abandon all else and write out a promise mark on his husband’s skin, and then to stay and witness the deed being done.

It was traditional, and Legolas had watched the making of Gimli’s own mark years ago, long before they had been formally wed – and that had been the full simplicity of Gimli’s promise: to marry Legolas with full pomp and ceremony before his Maker and his people both. 

Betrothals and other private promises were indeed what the marks were mostly used for these days– although Gimli had heard it told that some of King Thorin’s Company had pledged themselves the old way; his own father had such a mark on his skin. But whatever the promise, the mark made it binding: fulfill it or die trying. 

It had taken Gimli longer than he had desired to make good on his own oath, and that time not at all free from toil and trouble, but they _ had _ been wed in the end. 

And now Legolas’s hand was trembling in his own, though he remained otherwise unmoving, barely breathing as the needles went into his skin. Gimli did not ask him of his promise, not yet. Unlike their marriage contract, this pledge required no outside witnesses, and Legolas would tell him when he chose to.

His unconventional mark was such a simple thing that it was finished far sooner than Gimli had expected.

‘How does it look?’ asked Legolas and lifted his head. His eyes were glistening, and there was a sheen of sweat upon his upper lip.

‘Like my name, writ plain.’ Gimli squeezed his hand. ‘Good. It looks good, and better with time.’ The Cirth stood out crisp and straight against Legolas’s flushed-pink skin, framed between two simple angular lines, as simple as any maker’s mark or seal of ownership. As plain as Legolas had wanted it.

‘Good.’ Legolas caught his eye, and perhaps saw something of his thought in there, because he touched a fingertip to his own mouth before speaking again, lips curved in a small, private smile. ‘I reckon it will be well healed by the time we see one another next.’ And then he spoke no more of the matter before riding out and down into the Deeping-coomb, his golden hair tied up into a high knot above the light bandage fastened around his neck.

* * *

Months passed, and now it was Gimli’s turn to travel East to Ithilien. The day of his arrival had been overlong with food and pleasantry, but now he was finally alone with his husband in the small house half carved into the stone heart of the hill, and Legolas turned to him the darkened gaze that had so tormented him in company.

‘Come,’ he said. 'Let me show you.' He pried open first one silver clasp on his high-collared jacket, then another, backing towards the bedchamber. Gimli’s eyes followed the path of his hands down the front of the garment, and he silently cursed the sheer number of minute fastenings, for all that he’d once been proud of the gift, and of the fine work.

‘You impossible creature,’ he growled low in his throat as he stalked after him. ‘After all this time you still will seek to vex me?’

‘Patience,’ said Legolas, laughing softly. His fingers danced on the last clasps until he could shrug off the jacket, the soft grey doeskin falling into a rumpled pile at his feet as he turned to climb onto the bed. 'Now look.’ He bowed his head as Gimli stepped closer.

Long golden hair parted neatly on two sides of his neck, and the warm lamplight made the runes stand out clear from his pale skin.

‘It has healed well, I see,’ said Gimli, his voice feeling like gravel in his dry throat as he followed the lines of ink with a single fingertip. His name, healed clean, writ bold. ‘It is fine to look at.’ And he felt Legolas shiver as he gathered him into his arms, heard the sharp judder of his breath as he pressed his mouth to the marked skin.

The work had indeed been made well, and healed even better, for Gimli could feel nothing but an unbroken expanse of velvety warmth, soft under his lips and tongue, yet even before he pulled back to see the colour bound forever under the skin, the mere knowledge of the mark made his pulse race with a rush of heat through his veins, made him clutch his husband closer as Legolas gasped out a tight, wanting whisper: _ Don’t stop. _

To imagine that he would, with these months spent thinking of this very moment, with these last nights wasted dreaming of it– wasted, for none of it came close to the truth, to the heady, dizzying heat of here-and-now. Humming low in his throat, Gimli pulled at the loose collar of Legolas's shirt, starting a trail of small, biting kisses all the way down to the embroidered edge of the fabric.

‘Careful,’ said Legolas. ‘Unless you mean to rip it off.’

‘That was one time, and mostly your doing,’ Gimli countered, and oh, but he was tempted, greatly so.

He spared the shirt, but set his teeth to the flesh of Legolas's shoulder _ through _ the whisper-thin cloth, and his husband cried out in delight, arching against him, tense and aquiver. ‘Again–’ His let his head fall back against Gimli’s shoulder, his voice fraying at the edges. Again, just as Gimli knew he would want it, hard enough to bruise, to leave a mark, if only for a few days.

But _ oh _, that there was a mark on him now that would last and remain. Gimli pulled impatiently at soft fine cloth-of-nettle until his hands found a way beneath it, to touch a warm hollow beneath the cage of ribs, trembling with a shivering breath. He tasted the sheen of salt off Legolas's warm skin, his nose buried in the softest of hair, and breathed deep on the scent of sunlight and forest.

Alas that they should still be clothed– but he could be patient, he could_ not stop _ doing what Legolas had begged him to do, he could keep at it until they both were panting with the need for more. 

Legolas broke first. ‘I need–’ he said, breathless now, demanding, his pulse jumping under Gimli's hand, ‘I need you to take me– it’s been so long and I’ve been wanting–’

The words cut off as Gimli tackled him facedown onto the bed, hands clamped tight around his wrists, hips grinding without thought against the tight perfect curve of his arse for whatever small relief he could gain. And Legolas let him, surrendered with an abandoned moan, a broken gasped-out _ Yes _ as he pushed back to meet him, his shoulder-blades heaving with each panting breath, sharp against the sheer cloth like vestigial wings desperate for flight.

With great reluctance, Gimli eased back until he could roll up Legolas’s shirt, revealing the simple short breeches he was wearing above his pale green hose. Gimli hooked a finger under the drawstring waist and pulled slightly.

‘Go on,’ said Legolas.

Gimli took a proper grip, and felt the cloth part at the seam with a satisfying sharp sound, revealing the enticing curves of smooth skin underneath. With a grateful sigh, he took a firm handful and squeezed, yanking his belt open with the other hand.

Beneath him, Legolas stretched out his hand along the side of the bed, then thumped at the mattress with a frustrated grunt.

‘I can’t reach it,’ he said, and wriggled as if meaning to unseat him.

Cursing under his breath, Gimli released him. Legolas immediately rolled to his stomach and crawled up on the bed to retrieve a flat metal tin wedged between the mattress and the bedstead, presenting a far-too-tempting sight with his shirt bunched up at his waist and his hose hanging loose down his thighs, with nothing but creamy pale skin in between.

Gimli tore off his over-tunic and tossed it aside; the belt buckle made a bright clang hitting the floor. If his cock wasn’t yet burning a hole through his trousers, it would be a marvel. ‘Be quick,’ he said.

‘I will, if you will,’ countered Legolas, pointing a finger at Gimli’s remaining clothes. With a single swift motion, he pulled his own shirt over his head, then made a show of slowly opening the tin. The sweetness of honeycomb wafted into the air as he slicked up first one, then two of his fingers. And stopped, regarding Gimli with a pensive air. ‘Or I could help you, instead.’

‘And such help you would be sure to give me,’ Gimli grumbled, stepping out of his trousers, with one of his socks stubbornly remaining behind.

‘I would not know what you mean,’ Legolas countered with a blatant lie. He stretched out on his back, and folded one knee high against his chest, all of him exposed without shame: the proud curve of his arousal, the glistening droplets smeared into the golden trail of hair upon his stomach, the slow sure movements of his hand as he prepared himself.

Gimli felt his mouth water at the sight, at the hungry, knowing look in Legolas’s eyes as his gaze met his. He climbed into the bed next to him, and placed a hand on his hip, caressing the sharp arch of the bone with a sweep of his thumb. From there he made his way up, until he could pluck at his husband’s chest like harp-strings, and drink every aching, shuddering breath straight off his warm lips.

‘Enough,’ he heard soon enough, the voice rough and the grip of long fingers tight in his hair. ‘Make haste now–’ Legolas faltered as Gimli ran a final long lick down the side of his neck, and quickly rolled onto his stomach, lifting up his hips.

He made a most lovely picture like that; the long lean line of his back curving gracefully down to his golden head pillowed on his crossed arms. Muscles rippled under smooth, sweat-shimmering skin as he shifted his weight, and Gimli was seized anew by the same breathless awe that had filled those first days and weeks after they first spoke their love; that such beauty and strength was given for him to touch and to hold and to cherish.

And now he could read the mark of Legolas’s promise to him, carven dark onto soft pale skin, framed on each side by the golden cornsilk fall of his hair. Gimli’s own name, his claim to this elf writ bold and lasting. 

With shaking hands he gripped Legolas’s hips and thrust easily down into the deep impatient heat that enclosed him with tight flutters like shaking breaths. He stilled then, leaning close to his husband for a slow deep breath of calm; brushing the tip of his nose against the dip of Legolas’s spine he could smell soapwort and pine needles, that warm flavour that always made him think of sunshine.

‘Don’t you _ dare _ to stop,’ snapped Legolas, half-muffled against the mattress.

_ No, _ thought Gimli as he pushed his hips flush. No, he would not stop now. But one could not pound a piece of steel without heating it to full glow first. And for that you needed to build your fire with a steady hand to make it burn long and burn hot.

And so he did, and Legolas, who had sighed softly as he first gathered speed, cried out with delight as Gimli set into the work proper; tight breathless sobs of passion, again and again, until he was growing hoarse and trembling with it, and Gimli’s hands slipped on his sweat-slicked skin.

‘Stop,’ he said then, tapping on Gimli's arm as if this was a bout in the sparring ring. ‘My turn. I would see you.’ 

Legolas breathed out sharply as Gimli pulled out, but pushed him onto his back without a hint of hesitation. There was a dark rosy flush feathering down his neck and chest, and his hair stuck to his skin in thin strands of darkening gold. 

He bit at his bottom lip as he straddled him, eyes closed tight, but his expression softened with a low pleased sigh as he sank all the way down. His hand found Gimli’s promise-mark on his chest. ‘There,’ he whispered with a soft smile. 'Right there.' He caught his gaze and held it as he began to move, a liquid sinuous roll of his hips that had his powerful thighs flex and give beneath Gimli’s hands. He was chasing down his pleasure now, his own and Gimli's, with a hunter's single-minded focus in his eyes, his breath coming sharp and fast between parted lips.

'Come here a moment,' said Gimli, and clasped his shoulder.

And Legolas bowed down, lithe and limber, and kissed him hard and deep, moaning as Gimli traced the smooth-skinned hollow at the base of his skull, curious fingertips searching for a mark they could not feel, hand cupping the back of his neck to stay him, to greedily keep his mouth for a moment longer. Matching Legolas’s movement, he thrust up, the white-iron burn of his desire not doused nor quenched as he drove his cock into the slick welcoming heat of his husband's body, but only made brighter, urging him on towards the point where they would both shatter and break.

With a high needy sound, Legolas broke free of the kiss and arched up, pushing himself down deeper, canting his hips to an angle that made them both gasp for breath. One hand locked around Gimli's forearm for purchase, he stroked his own length, his muscles tightening and releasing with each pull of his hand in a tempting, maddening forewarning that made Gimli thrust up fierce and fast until Legolas clenched tight around him, sobbing with pleasure, falling out of rhythm, spilling thick and white over his own hand. 

Without pausing, Gimli rolled them over, and took him hard and fast now, with no gentleness expected or needed as Legolas cried out beneath him, overcome with passion and clinging to him with shaking limbs. Relentless, he drove on, until his own pleasure grew too great to contain and burst forth from him, leaving him panting and trembling in the arms of his love, the one who proudly wore his name threaded into his very skin, held tight and held close in the perfect now that only ever ends too soon.

* * *

It was later. They had cleaned themselves, but not dressed, and Gimli was taking out Legolas's braids.

'It's a promise to stay,' said Legolas as Gimli once again half-purposefully brushed the pad of his thumb over the mark on his skin. 'As far as I am able to make one.' Gimli hummed low between his teeth, but said nothing. Asked nothing. This was for Legolas to tell.

'Someday,' Legolas went on, 'someday too soon, I will be left alone.' Gimli teased a bead free from fine golden hair and dropped it into a carved wooden box sitting on the bed beside him. 'I have known grief before, but it is said there's none greater on either side of the Sea,’ said Legolas. ‘Great enough, it is said, to make a spirit cast itself free of the flesh to escape such suffering.' He fell silent for a long moment, and Gimli still waited to speak. This was nothing they had not discussed before, yet he felt there remained more his husband still wished to say.

'And it is also told that the Great of the West might grant a new shape to spirits thus passed beyond the Sea. But I would not have it so.' With a sudden, near-violent motion, Legolas turned about, and his hair slipped away from Gimli's fingers like spiderweb, like hours and days and years.

'I would not have my bones and skin made anew into something that knows not your touch, remembers not the heat and strength and tenderness of you. So I've marked _ this _ flesh–' he pressed both his fists tight against his own chest, his eyes burning quicksilver and steel– ' _ this _ body for all time. With your name under the sky I've marked it, so that even though you will be lost to me, my spirit might have strength enough to stay in the skin that remembers how good it was to have you, and with that memory, ward off the pain.' With a small, sad smile on his lips, he took Gimli's hands in his own. 'I cannot promise not to fade without you,' he said softly, 'but I will swear to fight it, however best I can.'

'Then I'm sure you will be formidable indeed,' murmured Gimli, stroking his thumbs gently over Legolas's knuckles.

'Hush now, I would say more,' his husband softly reprimanded, and squeezed his hands. 'To you, as well as to myself, I also promise this: if ever this world be sung anew, and myself with it, I will find you, no matter how long it takes me.'

Gimli waited for a while after these words, a handful of heartbeats, but Legolas spoke no more. 'I am honoured by your promise,' he then replied. 'And in my turn would swear you this: in that newly-forged world, I will not wait for you, but will seek you, so that we might more quickly find one another again.'

Legolas lifted an eyebrow. 'You already promised me one thing, and have duly fulfilled it,' he said, resting his hand over Gimli's heart.

'Nonsense! Who's to say how many promises I'm allowed to give you, as long as I can make good of them?'

And Legolas laughed with delight upon hearing this, and kissed him, and tumbled him down onto the bed, and there they made yet another sweet memory for this body, for this skin that now bore the seal of Gimli's name.


End file.
